There was a coarse warmth. The grit of sand caressed his skin and moved its way between the threads of his clothing. His gaze pulled to his side, dragging red hair through the salt. A soft wind whistled into the canals of his ear as it sailed up the dunes; the wild-rye waved in silence.

He sat up, lifting his head from the backshore. The tide had crept to his boots and softly washed over the leather, but the sea held no weight; his feet were dry. A cupped hand reached for the waters only for it to pass through the skin like a mirage.

Then, the sound of a sudden crash. A violent tide. Waves at war with the intent to destroy. It filled his mind and drowned his ears, sending him to recoil into his arms.

“Crazy old fucker, have you lost your mind?!”

“KEZAIAH! WAS IT NOT MAGNIFICENT?! WILL YOU NOT GIVE YOUR PRAISES?!”

“Praises? I should fucking gut you.”

“YES YES YES YES YES YES! HOW LONG IT HAS BEEN! LET US TEST OUR METTLE!”

“Wait, shut up. Omaex, you bastard, he’s not brea…”

The battle ceased. After a few moments, he peered through the comfort of his hands. The ocean seemed endlessly still. Static. It was as if it were painted with oil and azurite - its great reaches all one flat tone.

Distant movement. It was brief. Like the flickering of a dying star, white flashes danced at the horizon. A storm crawled over the sea, blackening the flat blue in its endless hunger.

His boots pressed into the sand and turned in a pivot. The grove sat beyond the dunes, surrounded by the clutches of the Murmur Yews and their budding leaves. It glimmered beneath false light. A facade.

A seven-string song seeped into the soft breeze. He hadn’t realised, but it was his own unoccupied hands that struck the chords. Pulling, strumming, plucking, flicking. There was a longing in his song as he gazed, and gazed on.

He thought of his mother. He thought of her in that grove. How they danced and sang, how they told stories and tales. Wet eyes pulled to a pained close.

His fingers grew stiff. Each pluck of the string was harsher than the last. Sorrow quickly turned to frustration, and frustration to fury. A question lingered upon his mind, a question that relentlessly haunted him.

“Where are you now, mother? Where are you now?”

Beneath the furrowing of his brow, his eyes opened once more. Vibrance had long faded from the shore and grove beyond it, swallowed hole by a monochrome of grey. Murmur Yews stood crooked and black, embedded in cracked and ruined earth.

The lyre screeched and cried. Agony. It enveloped him in cruel grasps and pulls, twisting his insides. He pulled away from the grove and back to the shore. His song continued, but his head fell.

Red emerged from the grey. It ran down the strings and stained the wood. Nails tore from the flesh and the skin with it. He now plucked with the wounds he’d carved. Tissue began to peel from the bone. He screamed and cried in silence beneath the song.

Knees buckled and planted into the congealing puddle of red sand. The shuddering of his hands let the lyre loose, and the river with it. Still, the song continued.

A tight fist struck into the lyre, breaking it into the dune. It struck again. Then again. Then again. Buried in fragments of shattered wood, beneath the grit of red and muted greys, the song continued.

He lay his forehead to rest upon it, his hair disappearing into the crimson. Ravaged fingers and bloodied knuckles dug deep into the sand before him. They reached for handfuls of cold nothing.

“Where are you now?”

He wallowed. Breathless. Hollow. Empty. The song had ceased.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

But his eyes opened once more. Watching his hands rise from their burial, something held onto them. Delicate, careful. When they emerged from the sand, his hands were clutched by another’s: a woman’s.

A head of hair to match his own; clad in armour of paper and parchment; yellowed like aging varnish; no shadow in sight. He saw a painting take motion. The portrait of his mother with no frame. Blood ceased to flow, his wounds returning to their pale state.

She guided him to his feet with a rehearsed elegance. Vivid lips moved to speak, but he could not hear them.

“Surely.” He croaked. “Surely it’s an apology.”

He stopped. She smiled.

“You realize, Don’t you? I am going to do it. And then, when I’m done, I’ll make him remember. Oh, yes. When I make him remember, what do you think he’ll say? Will he beg - scream?”

He recoiled, pulling his hands from her. Gaze drifting, he avoided her own.

“Well, your thinking is nothing to me. You’re a corpse in a Blackwell cemetery. Rotting. Fucking rotting. No royalties, no heirloom, no mention - only a ring. You’re all I have yet you’re not here. So I take the blame, because he didn’t fucking like you? Spare me, I’d have peeled your bloody pictures from the wall if they were not already ash.”

Their eyes met again. Still, she could only smile. Lips shook. Fingers trembled. Remorse. A single tear trailed down her cheek but, still, she smiled. Her hands extended once more. They did not reach.

“Don’t do that.” Eyes welled, but he did not let them run. Instead, he let his fists loose on the sand once more. “Don’t fucking do that! Let me leave this place - let me leave!”

The blood returned as he spat on earth. Kicking. Gasping. Striking. Screaming.

“I’d fucking kill you, I’d fucking kill you but you’re already dead! You’re dead! You’re gone! You left - you left me alone!”

The heavens bellowed. An intruder. They watched in amusement.

“Yes. This is as it should be. Monkey of a man, red-haired mongrel. Depraved, utterly depraved with degeneracy,” the voice echoed. Condescension; a mockery. It was his Clio.

A tightness rose, from heart to throat. Daggers for eyes. Acid sweat. His teeth gnawed. He lifted his hand and the heavens trembled.

Terror struck in the form of blue. A bolt, surging, abhorring. The shore erupted into dust and steam with the whipcrack. He remained in a crater of his own making. The sand fell from its borders, slowly collecting around his boots.

Then shadow took form. From the clouds of dust, he saw her, his sister. Powdered shadow beneath her iris; black silk flowing from her scalp; a dark dress lined with gold, flowing, sailing, dancing. She sneered, her chin raised.

His fists tightened and he opened his mouth to speak, but hands caught his throat. They clawed. Nails pressing to skin. Strength stolen.

“Best you wake up, slut-blooded beggar,” she uttered.

The tide broke the borders of the crater. It washed and rolled over the falling sand, enveloping him. Quickly it rose.

She leaned toward him, her lips pursed to whisper.

“Lest you drown.”

He pried his lips to retort, but the cold salt filled his mouth. He fought and struggled. It was to no avail. Vision began to blur, smothered by the sea’s foam. But, he could see her from beneath the surface. Laughing. Cheering. Delighted.

His hands grasped her wrists, pulling them from his throat. They squeezed with dismembering intent.

They could not.

Light began to fade. Soft prickles from the abyss crawled up his skin. Then he was pulled from the water.

The abyss had taken shape. His father. A look of disdain; skin sinking to the muscle of his jaw; the windows to his soul black, ever so black.

“Lest. You. Drown.”

He was tossed back to the water, but the fight had left him. Salt washed over his face with no hand held to his throat. The world swirled and faded. Darkness

—

Orpheus whipped his head forward, rising from the pillows and sheets drenched in sweat. His lungs worked like the fires of a furnace. They gasped and churned the air as if he’d never taken a breath before.

Panicked eyes shot a gaze of desperate searching. They found only white curtains and a single window, rattling as it kept the storm beyond at bay. Then he looked to his hands, wrapped in bandages with spots of red and brown. Orpheus lay there covered from head to toe.

A hand wiped his cheek, freeing it of the tears that streamed.

“You bitch, meddling, always meddling,” he said through clamped teeth.

Gradually he’d caught his breath, just enough to notice a note that lay across his lap. He reached for it, but his vision blurred. He was lost to a haze and headache, one that returned his head to the pillows.

He exhaled, exhausted. Beneath the pounding in his skull, he counted each raindrop that hit the window pane.

Orpheus’ body cried for sleep, however, his mind would not relent. Not on this night, and not in the many nights to come.